


what (we) could've been

by londer



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6328048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londer/pseuds/londer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 moments in an establishing relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what (we) could've been

**Author's Note:**

> 1) what is this historical accuracy you speak of??? never heard of it  
> 2) title (loosely) from What I Could've Been from Working the musical  
> 3) I don't even really ship these two but the idea punched me in the face so here we are.

_1\. We were at some revels_

 

Aaron is at the townhouse of revolutionary sympathizers, a merchant and his wife who are helping in supplying the war with arms and good cheer. There is drinking and dancing, with the officers in their dress uniforms and young ladies in rustling silk and satin.

The middle Miss Schuyler captures his attention last. Aaron has met the oldest Miss Schulyer before, and they bandy words easily before she dances away on the arm of John Church with a coy smile. The youngest Miss Schuyler in attendance is effusive, kisses him on each cheek (“ _in the french style, Mister Burr!”_ ), smiles and blushes when he compliments her dress and her hair. She is all too soon called away by a gaggle of brightly-dressed young ladies who he politely smiles and dips a shallow bow to as they drag her away in a fit of giggles behind soft hands.

The middle Miss Schuyler sits in a picture window overlooking the empty street below, champagne goblet loosely held in slender figures. Her hair is up in a tidy knot and her gray dress sparkles with silver embroidery. She looks young and fresh, and there is a steady stream of gentlemen leaving her picture-window court. None look disappointed at the dismissal from her company, as though they carry some of her serene grace away with them.

When Aaron first notices her, his word-heavy mind falls silent. His motto has always been _Talk Less, Smile More_ ; it means swallowing down paragraphs, trapping them in his mind. Now, he could not say anything even if he wanted to. He is reluctant to join the parade of rejected men; his pride mislikes the idea of leaving Miss Schuyler’s presence.

Hamilton, with his no shortage of pride, is the latest to be sent on his way, looking rather like a tousled lion, significantly more upset than any of the others. “Aaron Burr, sir!” His usual crow of that god-above-be-forsaken epithet is gone, replaced with a defeated grumble.

“Hamilton,” Aaron says, dipping his head. He waits.

“Eliza, Eliza Schuyler, that is-” Something in Aaron’s chest blazes a little as Hamilton throws Miss Schuyler’s given name about so easily. “And I were just talking.”

“Oh?” Aaron offers, not taking the bait.

Hamilton huffs a sigh. “ _And_ she refuses to- to- well, anything. Not to dance, not to drink, not to promise to write in response to my letters-”

“Letters, or novels?” Aaron’s voice betrays him before he can snap the words back up. Hamilton’s eyebrows tilt upwards in surprise.

“Novels,” Miss Schuyler says from where she has appeared at Aaron’s elbow. “Is nothing private in your affairs, Mister Hamilton?” The coolness in her tone makes Aaron’s heart giddy. Hamilton has the good sense to look thoroughly abashed, and makes some excuse to duck away, flushed red.

Eliza turns to him. Part of Aaron wishes to flee, the other feels trapped in her gaze. “Mister Burr.”

“Miss Schuyler.” With whatever scrap of intelligence left in his head, he remembers himself and gives a courteous little half-bow.

“Eliza,” She correct him. “You must call me Eliza, Angelica is Miss Schuyler now that Mother is gone.”

“Eliza,” The word tastes like foreign honey on his tongue. “A pleasure to finally meet you. I hold your sisters in acquaintance and the highest esteem.”

“Yes,” Eliza says, and her smile forms slowly like the coming tide. “Peggy mentioned you were here tonight. Come, sit with me.” She beckons and he follows her, sits on the ledge of the picture window at her side.

 

_2\. With some rebels_

 

Aaron’s had a few too many. Hamilton had dragged him along with some of their fellow soldiers for a drink at a tavern ten miles from their camp. Close enough to run back in case of trouble, far enough away to escape the General’s disapproval and the tides of their fellow off-duty soldiers looking for a night out.

Lafayette has been plying them all with mugs of beer and whiskey, and Aaron has found himself unable to refuse. They lost Hercules to a serving girl with pretty curls earlier, and Laurens was now standing on a stool, rambling about the black regiment he intended to create to anyone willing to listen. Lafayette was spitting rapid french at the tavern owner who appeared to be responding in kind, and so Aaron found himself in charge of a sopping-drunk Hamilton.

“She’s just...best of women. Best of wives, prob’ly, too, only she’d never have some…” His head is cushioned on his arm, finger idly tracing around the rim of his mug.

“Bastard, orphan, whoreson?” Aaron offers up, sipping his own drink, forcing down images of Miss Schuyler in all white, smiling up at a faceless groom, _Eliza_ with a little girl in her image clinging to her hand.

Hamilton nods pitifully. “You’ve met her, you know...what I…” He slumps further forward onto the table. “All these words and none will ever be enough for m’darlin’ Betsey…” His voice drifts off as he slumps unconscious.

Aaron continues to nurse his own drink. He doesn’t think about Eliza’s handful of letters to him. About Hamilton’s flurry of correspondence, determined to win her (and the General, and the French, and suppliers) over. He thinks about how nice it is that Hamilton stops talking for more than ten seconds when he’s asleep.

 

_3\. On a hot night_

 

It’s unreasonably warm out for just past dusk on a late August evening in upstate New York. The air is heady with roses and fresh earth, and Aaron’s shirt clings to him with a film of sweat. There had been dancing inside the governor’s manse for the past few hours, leisurely waltzes as the guests attempted to have some fun despite the heat wave that’d crashed over the state, and the wine and constant smiles and perfumed bodies pressed close to him was making his head spin. He’d intended to duck away for only a few moments, escape the stifling heat of the ballroom and find a moment of peace.

Miss Schuyler- _Eliza,_ she told him to call her _Eliza_ \- is sitting on a stone bench, dress hiked up around her knees, shoes and stockings kicked off onto the grass. The pale blue shoulders of her dress have been pushed down her arms as far as they are able to stretch. Her eyes are closed, head tilted back, black hair a soft sheet, untucked from its bun. She looks serene, a marble figure or a summer goddess.

She hears his footsteps on the grass, the lush lawn that has dried into cracking straws under his feet in the wave of heat and drought. Her eyes are liquid black when she turns to him, reflecting the lanterns and lights of the house.

“Mister Burr.” Her expression is impossible to read, neither surprised nor horrified at his intrusion on her peace.

“Eliza.” His heart skips several beats when she smiles at his use of her given name. She pats the bench next to her, shifts a little so that her skirts cover her soft calves but makes no other move to right her appearance. “I do not mean to-”

“Nonsense,” she says, patting the bench beside her a little more firmly. He sits. “I welcome your intrusion on my thoughts, Mister Burr. The war sits heavily in my mind, although Father and Mister Hamilton insist that I ought not worry.”

“I cannot say that you should not worry,” Aaron says, and the disquiet in Eliza’s eyes clenches his heart. He takes her warm hand and she relinquishes it willingly. “War is a terrible thing, and many will not survive this insurgence against the King. The Revolution will touch every soul on this continent. They may seek to protect you from its horrors but to shelter you from it entirely is a folly. I would entreat you to let others bear the conscious burden of war, but not to let it slip entirely from your mind.”

Eliza presses a kiss to Aaron’s cheek, and the skin under her lips flushes with blood. She herself is tinged pink when she sits back from him. “Whatever happened to Talk Less, Aaron?”

 

_4\. Laughin' at my sister_

 

Peggy is in distress, and Eliza is barely capable of choking down her laughter. Her sweet sister flits about their shared bedroom, piling dresses out of the wardrobes and trunks and onto the bed. There’s a party tonight, to celebrate some victory, entirely impromptu with no time to get anything new for it. Not that there’s been the money or time for anything new these past months, but the sentiment stands.

“ _Eliza!_ ” Her sister all but wails. “ _Help!_ ” Peggy is newly old enough to be married, and with Angelica’s surprise engagement to Mister Church, she is utterly determined to find Eliza a suitable husband as soon as possible so that she can have her pick of the young men as well.

“The yellow,” Eliza says kindly, pulling the starched dress away from the rest of the pile. “Angelica wore it once a summer ago, nobody will remember it on you.” Peggy heaves a sigh of relief and all but dives into the garment, turning to have her sister do up the back.

“And which for you?” Peggy asks with a coquettish smirk. “Our _dear_ Mister Burr will be in attendance tonight, won’t you want to-” Eliza’s laughter dissipates almost immediately and she busies herself with repacking the rest of the dresses.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Eliza says, but she already knows what she’s going to wear, the pale lavender gown in the same cut as the blue she wore the last time they saw each other.

 

_5\. As she's dazzling the room_

 

Eliza knows that all the eyes are on her, but she cannot bring herself to care for the war is _over,_ they are _free_. She’s danced the entire night during the celebration in the city’s Town Hall, where the upper and middle classes are mingling with some trepidation. Her dress is elaborate, brand-new from Paris and its green silks billow around her like a summer breeze. She’s lost count of who she has danced with, men she has known all of her life, and men with coarser hands and unfamiliar faces who seemed awed at her presence alike. She knows she is grinning like a fool but cannot seem to wipe her expression blank.

Aaron arrives late to the festivities, and must thinks she is blind to not see him enter, or to take note of how he has been observing her with a guarded warmth the entire time as she spins about the dance floor. Maybe that is why she stays out so long, even as her feet and calves begin to ache with the strain of it.

After one last turn near midnight she nearly collapses onto a divan, hair pasted to her neck with sweat. Aaron does not rush to her side, but takes his measured time approaching, two glasses of champagne in hand.

“Mister Burr!” She says, still fanning herself. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t-”

“Aaron,” He says, so quietly she nearly misses it if not for his blush immediately afterwards. Her insides turn to sweet, melted butter.

“Aaron,” She repeats softly. He sits next to her, a little stiffly but for once she does not have to bid him closer. She takes the second champagne glass, nearly quaffs half of it down before remembering that they are in Polite Company still, regardless of how much she may have danced. Eliza sips at it instead, studying Aaron from under her lashes. He’s still very red, and seems to be struggling to put a sentence together.

“You look...exquisite, tonight,” he finally manages to string together, and Eliza glows under the praise.

“Thank you,” she says demurely, and decides to play at his own game and allow him to be the one to continue.

He doesn’t flounder this time. “If you are not too tired...perhaps would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Eliza’s feet are still on fire and she would like nothing in this instant more than to be doused in cool water but she rises immediately, places her glass on a small table and takes Aaron’s arm. “I would be honored.”

They swirl past Angelica and Peggy later in the night. Both of her sisters have arrogant, self-righteous smirks on their faces.

Looking up at Aaron, Eliza can’t bring herself to care.


End file.
